Two months passed like a relentless storm.
Every morning at dawn, Ryan woke to the shrill whistle cutting through the thin forest air. The tents, the cracked ground, the heavy mist around the training facility in Andhra Pradesh had become his new world. A brutal, unforgiving world — ruled by one woman's cold hand.
Maggi, with her sharp emerald green eyes and flowing red hair, led every session with chilling precision. She didn't offer encouragement. She didn't even yell. Her voice remained calm, detached — like a surgeon operating without emotion.
Ryan trained every day until his muscles screamed for mercy.
First Extra Training Session — The Breakdown
One particularly brutal morning, Maggi threw him into the shooting range with a full round of weapons.
Assault rifles first. Heckler & Koch HK416, M4 Carbine — the solid thud of each shot echoing through his bones.Then, she switched him to shotguns. The recoil hammered his shoulder with every blast, leaving bruises that purpled by nightfall.Finally, sniper rifles. "Hold your breath. Aim for the wind drift. Pull the trigger as if whispering a secret," she said coldly.
Ryan tried. He tried until sweat soaked his clothes and the rifle trembled in his hands.
But as exhaustion gnawed at his body, he misjudged a shot, pulling too early, the bullet missing the target by a wide margin.
Maggi didn't sigh. She didn't yell.
Instead, she walked up to him slowly, her boots crunching over the gravel, and said with that clinical coldness:"If you can't handle pressure, you'll die long before you can defend the ones you love."
Ryan gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. His pride burned hotter than the bruises.
But he said nothing.
He picked up the rifle again.
And again.
And again.
Until the sun fell and his arms could no longer lift.
Second Extra Training Session — The Rise
Another day, weeks later, she took him into a deeper part of the woods — a simulated warzone.
"Today," Maggi said in that same detached tone, "you will face moving targets. React, adapt, survive."
Metal targets popped up randomly from trees, ground, hidden compartments.Ryan had only seconds to aim, fire, reload.
The first few tries, he failed miserably — slow shots, missed bullets, clumsy reloads.
Maggi stood by a nearby tree, arms crossed over her generous chest, watching him like a hawk — silent, judgmental.
Her body language didn't need words. It screamed: "You are not good enough yet."
Ryan felt the sting.Felt the anger at himself.
By the fifth drill, he gritted his teeth and moved faster.No wasted motion.Focus.Breathe.Fire.
Target down.
Again.
Target down.
Maggi gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod when he completed the last run without missing a shot.
It was the first small victory.
But she didn't praise him.
Instead, she turned away and said, "We start again tomorrow."
Final Day — The Assessment
Sixty-one days after his arrival, Ryan stood in the shooting range once again.
Today was different.
There were no instructions. No drills. No yelling.
Only Maggi standing in front of him, clipboard in hand, her expression as cold and unreadable as always.
"You will show me everything," she said. "Pistols. Assault rifles. Sniper. Shotgun."
Ryan nodded, tightening the fingerless gloves around his hands.
The air buzzed with tension.
He started with the pistol — holding it in perfect form, smooth trigger pull, dead-center shots.
Switched to the HK416, handling the recoil like a soldier born for battle.
Moved onto the M4 Carbine, adjusting for rapid fire.
Then, sniper rifle — he adjusted for wind, distance, breathing — and hit three consecutive bullseyes.
Finally, the shotgun — brutal, unforgiving recoil — but he fired clean, without losing posture or focus.
After giving him one hour break .
Maggi called him to a long metal table set up outside.
On it were pieces — stripped-down pistols, shotguns, sniper rifles, assault rifles. A chaotic mess of parts.
"You will reassemble and disassemble all weapons," she said coolly. "Time limit: thirty minutes."
Ryan swallowed.
He had practiced this for weeks, but now, under her icy gaze, the pressure felt suffocating.
He started with the pistol.Snap. Lock. Slide.Done.
Then the HK416 — more complex, delicate fitting of parts, locking in the firing pin, the bolt carrier.Done.
Next, the M4 Carbine — swift and efficient.
Then shotguns — trickier, heavier components.
Finally, the sniper rifle — where every minor alignment mattered.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
He finished with seconds to spare.
Maggi said nothing.
She merely stepped forward, checked each weapon — rapid, professional — and then silently checked a box on her clipboard.
Green tick.
Ryan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
When he finished, Ryan stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands steady.
Maggi said nothing at first.
She simply checked the clipboard.
Ticked off a green mark.
And coldly said:"Acceptable."
Ryan exhaled sharply, almost laughing at how even now, after two months of hell, that was all he got.
But in her cold world, "acceptable" was high praise.
As they walked back to their tents, Maggi spoke once — her voice the same calm, frozen river it always was.
"Mei Lin built you a strong foundation," she said. "I finished polishing it."
Ryan looked at her, a little tired, a little proud, but still respectful.
"And now?" he asked.
Maggi didn't look at him. Only forward.
"Now we begin the real training," she said coldly.
Ryan felt a chill run down his spine.
Because he knew.
What came next... would be hell itself.